J. Robb - Fantasy in Death

A fairly typical evening for them, Roarke supposed, and he had no complaints. He would have to devote several hours of what might have been free time to his own business due to the interruption of the day-and likely days more. But he liked his work, so that wasn’t a true sacrifice.

In any case, the interruption had been his call, his choice.

The boy had sparked something in him in life-all that enthusiasm and discovery. And the boy had touched something in him in death-the waste, the cruelty of the waste.

It had touched deep because Bart had trusted him-a competitor-and one with the means and experience to betray that trust and crush a young company like a hatching egg under a boot.

Perhaps that explained why he felt obligated to help find out who’d do so. Not to the company, but to the boy himself.

Eve had called Bart simple, Roarke recalled. He wasn’t sure he agreed entirely, but certainly Bart had been uncomplicated. Open, eager, honest, brilliant, and making a mark doing what he loved with people he loved.

Life should be so uncomplicated for everyone, Roarke thought.

Maybe, at the base of it, Bart had sparked something in him due to their differences rather than their similarities. No one, Roarke admitted, would ever consider him open or honest. And he’d never, even as a boy, held that fresh eagerness or casual brilliance.

Still, he’d made his mark while Bart had only begun to scratch the surface of his own potential.

He left the search on auto and walked through the shared doorway to see Eve finishing her murder board. As they often did, he thought, they’d have the dead as company for dinner.

The cat watched her, sprawled over the back of her sleep chair like a fat, furry blanket. Galahad switched his tail as a casual wave of greeting as Roarke crossed over. He ran a hand over the cat, head to switching tail, and got a low, murmuring purr in response.

“You took a while, so I figured I’d set up. I already fed the cat,” she added. “Don’t let him tell you different.”

Roarke picked up the wine she’d set on the table by the window-she’d taken his advice there-and poured two glasses. “The searches are running.” He lifted one of the hot lids and noted she’d chosen the swordfish, married it with asparagus, and fries.

“The fries are a compromise since I’m eating fish.” She turned from the completed board to take the wine he offered. “I thought about making yours with one of the rice deals you seem to like for no good reason I can think of. But then it’s more like going out to a restaurant than fixing a meal at home. So you get what I get.”

“You have the oddest thought patterns at times.” Because what she’d done, how and why she’d done it, chased off some of the shadows, he touched his glass to hers. “It looks good.”

“It ought to. I slaved over a cool AutoChef for a full five minutes.” She sat, smiled at him. “Why does a fish have a sword?”

“Is this a riddle?”

“No, it’s a question. Do they do the en guard, touché thing or just go around stabbing unarmed fish because they can?”

“Maybe they do battle with the hammerheads.”

“Sword’s got a longer reach than a hammer, but a hammer could break a sword. It might be interesting, but I think it’s stupid to bring a hammer to a swordfight, unless it’s all you’ve got.”

“Use whatever weapon comes to hand, and anything that comes to hand is a potential weapon.”

“Yeah. If Bart was gaming a swordfight, he wouldn’t have brought a hammer.”

Easier, Roarke realized, to consider the details of death than to sink into the philosophy of it. “Depending on the game, the level, the programming, he might have had to earn his weapons. They can also be lost or broken, jammed or simply run out of charge or ammunition, again depending.”

“Did you ever play with him?”

“A couple of times. We never did holo, as it generally takes more time, and the facilities. But we played some VR, and some straight comp. He was very good, quick reflexes, and though he tended to take unnecessary risks, he made up for that with enthusiasm. But for the most part we talked technology, the business, marketing. We only had contact a handful of times the past two or three years.”

“Did you ever have him over here?”

“No. I’m not as trusting, and there was never any reason or purpose to it. We didn’t actively socialize, or have anything in common really but a common interest. He was very young, on several levels, and as many in their twenties do, he considered someone in their thirties as another generation.”

“Jamie’s younger,” she pointed out, speaking of Feeney’s godson and another e-wiz. “He’s been around a lot. You’ve worked with him. So have I.”

“Bart was nothing like Jamie. He hadn’t that edge, the street savvy, and certainly not any aspirations to turn his considerable e-skills toward a career in EDD. Jamie’s the next thing to family.”

Roarke paused, sipped some wine. “And does this conversation help you justify bringing me, a competitor of your victim, into the investigation as a consultant?”

“I don’t have to justify your participation, but it doesn’t hurt given the business interests, and the fact you told me you have a similar project under development, to keep it all open.”

“It’s always pleasant not to be a suspect.” He watched irritation cross her face, and honestly couldn’t say why he’d pushed that particular button.

“Look, from a strictly objective view, you could have smashed U-Play before it ever got off the ground, and at any point since then. They don’t threaten you. Hell, you’ve got the hammer and the sword, plus a couple of blasters and a pocketful of boomers. If you want to take down a company, and effectively, its brain, you use money, strategy, and guile, not a magic sword.”

She stabbed a piece of fish. “You have another perspective on the victim-not a partner, not exactly a friend, not an enemy, and a competitor only in the most technical sense. So you add to my picture of him while laying out the basics and the extent of your association.”

“That’s a lot of explanation,” he said mildly.

“Maybe.”

“Then I suppose I should add my own, in the interest of full disclosure and openness. I’ve implemented level-three runs on any of my people involved in the development of the holo-game project, and those on the fringes of it. Their associations, financials, communications.”

“That’s not your job.”

“I disagree. They’re my people, and I will be bloody well sure no one in my employ is involved in this, on any level, in any way.”

“The Privacy Act-”

“Be damned.” And a hot thread of anger, he admitted, felt more comfortable than this inexplicable sorrow. “Anyone employed by me or seeking to be is routinely screened, and signs a waiver.”

“Not for a level three, not without cause. That’s cop or government level.”

“Murder would be cause on my gauge.” His tone was as crisp and chilly as the wine.

“It’s a gray area.”

“Your gray is broader and darker than mine. There are incentives attached to a project like this, bonuses that could be very lucrative.” He stopped again, angled his head. “Which you know very well already as you’ve done or are doing your own level three, on my people.”

“It’s my job.”

“You might have told me. You might have trusted me enough to get the information for you.”

“You might have told me ,” she countered. “Trusted me enough to do my job. Dammit. I didn’t tell you because you had a personal attachment to the victim, and I didn’t see the point in adding to the upset by telling you or asking you to get the data. What’s your excuse?”